Unwelcome Assistance
by PotatoesandMushrooms
Summary: Beriadan was sent by his king, Thranduil, to spy on the other nations of Middle Earth. He is finally on his return journey when he is ambushed by orcs and left for dead. He, to his horror, is grudgingly saved by none other than Thorin and Company. Beriadan swears that, despite the dwarves, and his own injuries, he will get back to his home and his love, no matter what it takes.
1. Chapter 1

Everything belongs to J.R.R Tolkien.

This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so please give me any advice and criticism that you have. Please rate and review, it would make my week.

The rain had been coming down in sheets for what seemed like ages. The whole world looked grey and cold. Bilbo was cold, and wet, and befuddled besides. _Adventures_… Bilbo mused, feeling around fruitlessly for a pocket handkerchief_, Nothing good about them! Not one thing. Smelly, and wet, and dangerous things, they are, and are certainly nothing that a respectable, good Baggins like myself should be involved in._

Gandalf, directly behind Bilbo, could practically see his thoughts written across every part of his small, soaked body, from his slumped shoulders to his dripping hood. Gandalf was not so sure anymore that bringing along the hobbit was a good idea.

Thorin, at the head of the party, was thinking very different thoughts about adventures in general than poor Bilbo. _It shall be so grand to be back as Lord of Erebor._ He thought to himself, guiding his pony to the side of the road to avoid a large mud puddle. _Once that horrible Smaug is gone, there will be much work to do to make it habitable again. First, I will have to defeat the dragon, of course, and pay the burglar. Will I even want to pay him? Yes, yes, of course I will, I am not greedy like my grandfather. I am not like him at all… Now, let's see, where will I put my Arkenstone when I get it back?_

Kili rudely interrupted his uncle's thoughts with his excited gabbering. As if the rain was not enough, now he'd have another annoyance as well. And just when he'd been doing so well ignoring everyone, too.

"What is it, Kili?" Thorin asked wearily. he did not mean to be cross, it was just that his mind's wanderings in the future were a much better place to be than in present when the weather was this bad.

"There's something in the road up ahead!" Kili exclaimed, pointing straight ahead at the road in case Thorin had not gotten the message. There was a dense fog, and it was a wonder that he had been able to see anything ahead at all. (Unbeknownst to him, Kili had gotten bored and had ridden ahead, and had come across something rather unusual so close to the Shire.)

"Of course there's something in the road up ahead! There's always something! A slimy log, a rock, a puddle, yes, there's much to be found in the road ahead." Thorin said, trying to lighten the mood of the Company and failing miserably at providing some semblance of humor.

"No, Uncle! A person, or an elf, or something of that sort, up ahead." Kili said, exasperated.

"I can only assume we'll be upon it in a moment, and then we can take a look, if it would please you." Thorin agreed. Thorin would have normally been far more intrigued by something like this, but he was far too wet and miserable to care at this point.

Indeed, only about a minute had passed when Thorin's pony came up alongside a figure laying in the mud next to the road. It's limbs were splayed at odd angles and it's shoulder-length black hair was flung around it's head, tangled and stained with red. It was glowing slightly, and did not appear to be breathing. It's fingers were white at the knuckles as it gripped a long knife in one hand. A broken bow lay nearby; the ground around the figure was stained red. Thorin could see it was an elf and was, therefore, not inclined to stop, but Gandalf was staring at him, waiting for him to do something, and riding on without a second glance would probably not be what Gandalf wanted. So Thorin grudgingly dismounted and nudged the figure with the toe of his boot.

It moaned weakly and stirred a little, rolling onto its back. Thorin could not be sure if it was a male or a female; those elves all looked the same anyway. Not that it actually mattered what it was. It looked to be beyond help anyway, so it's gender really was of no importance. He was about to remount when he was stopped by Gandalf's loud clearing of his throat. Sighing in annoyance he knelt down by the figure, listening for any signs of breathing. If he strained, he could hear a faint, shallow rasping. It was alive, at least.

"It's alive." He said, getting to his feet. "It'll be alright on it's own."

"The blood is pooling around it's body." Fili pointed out. "If that is what you call alright, then you had better remind me to never let you try to heal me again from anything more than a cold!" Thorin sighed. They had far too long a way to go to sit here chattering about some random elf carcass. It was nearly nightfall anyway. They would have to set up camp soon.

"Thorin." Gandalf reproached gently, leaning on his staff. "Have you no compassion?"

"If I had compassion, I would just finish it off so it will not die so slowly." Thorin countered, weighing his axe in his hand.

"Are none of you wondering what an elf is doing in these parts? This is highly unusual, wouldn't you say?" Balin pointed out. "Perhaps if we help him, he can give us some explanations as to what is going on the cause him to be here."

"You keep saying 'him'." Thorin said. "How do you know it is male?" Balin waved him off.

"While we discuss his gender, he lays dying." Gandalf said.

"So we have decided it's a 'him'?" Kili chirped.

"It seems that way." Fili agreed. Thorin growled a little. He did not like this distraction from the quest, but Balin had a point. It was unusual for one of those folks to be anywhere near the Shire. Plus, angering a wizard is never a good idea, if Gandalf was bent on compassion for its sake, it was best to go along with it.

"Fine. All of you, quit yammering. Out of pity and for want of information, he can come with us, and we will attempt to heal him." Thorin decided. "Now, set up the camp. And Fili, Kili, and Balin, since you seem to be the most vocal about the matter, you can take care of him."

Fili and Kili rushed off to get supplies as Balin tried to assess the situation. The blood seemed to be mostly coming from three main places. There was a large stab wound in his abdomen, which seemed to be causing most of his woes, but by no means all. His arm was broken quite badly on his left side, and his right leg had taken an arrow as well. Bruises and cuts covered his face and body. Overall, he was in pretty bad shape.

What shocked Balin the most was the youth in his face. Surely, because of his species, he had to be at least three hundred years old, but he appeared to be only sixteen or seventeen in Men's reckoning. And yet, this young thing was clearly a warrior. Even unconscious and beaten, you could never have mistaken him for anything else. Those wounds must have been inflicted by an enemy of some sort. This type of injury did not just happen in an accident, clearly. He would have an interesting story to tell when he awoke. _If he awoke._ Balin silently added.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien.

If you have any ideas with what I should do for upcoming scenes, I'd love to hear them, and will probably end up using them too. Please Rate and Review.

Thanks to anyone who reviewed this last chapter. Please just review it. I need the negative and the positive. I'm trying to improve my writing. Plus, I need ideas.

Beriadan came to slowly, sitting up with a groan. He pressed a hand to his head in a vain attempt to stop the throbbing pain. Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, he studied his surroundings and tried to recall where he was.

A fire was burning a few yards away from where he was, and around the fire were clustered thirteen dwarves and what appeared to be a halfling. They were talking about someone named 'Gandalf' and wondering where he had gone to.

Beriadan shook his head in bewilderment and tried to get to his feet to leave. The second his right leg touched the ground, it buckled, and everything that had happened immediately came flooding back to him. Suppressing a scream, he fell back down as the orc attack replayed in his mind._ So where am I now?_ He asked silently, _and where did those dwarves come from?_ _And did they try to heal me, or was that someone else? _He tried to move his arm to get himself on his feet again, and searing pain wracked the entire left side of his body. He screamed, much louder than he would have dreamed was possible, and one of the dwarves got up and started walking towards him.

Beriadan cursed himself silently for his foolish outburst, reaching for his dagger that he kept under his cloak. He came up empty handed, muttering a dwarvish word he didn't know that he knew, they must have taken all of his weapons when they kidnapped him. The dwarf stopped in front of him and knelt down.

"Oh! You're finally awake, I see." He said, extending his hand. "May I see if your arm has stopped bleeding yet?" Beriadan's eyes widened as everything became clear, _they did try to heal me!_ H_ad the dwarves of the Blue Mountains been in alliance with the_ _orcs?_ He wondered, already almost certain it was true. _Why else would they have taken me with them, unless they were behind the attack in the first place? Are they going to torture me? How soon will they kill me?_

"Oh, I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Balin. What's yours, young one?" He said. Beriadan did not reply._ Skip the courtesies, what do you want with me!_ He wanted to scream,_ And young one?_ He added silently,_ Truly, he must be thicker than he looks. I am three hundred years old._ Balin shook his head sympathetically.

"Still in shock, I'll bet. Poor thing! I'd best be telling Thorin you're awake now." The fat little dwarf got up and waddled back to the fire.

Beriadan took a deep breath and struggled back to his feet, gasping as his foot touched the ground. He gritted his teeth and took a step. His leg buckled again and he fell, just as Balin and Thorin again reached the place where he was now lying.

Beriadan had never been one for cursing, but now he remembered another word he didn't know he knew and spit it out vehemently. Thorin regarded the usually upright elf with raised eyebrows and a barely hidden smirk. Beriadan glared back at him with not-at-all-hidden fury. The dwarf, was it Thorin? Carried himself regally, and was clearly the leader of this pitiful company, if it could even be called that. Beriadan could never allow himself to be sitting like this, lower than his adversary; it would be a shameful thing, almost as bad as admitting defeat to an inferior enemy. So, gritting his teeth so that he would not make a sound in his presence, he stood up so that he could look Thorin in the eye.

"That couldn't have felt good." Thorin commented, trying to be civil. "Do you have a name?" Beriadan refused to reply. Thorin sighed. "I saved your life. Don't make me regret it, please."

Now it was Beriadan's turn to look incredulous. _Saved my life? Oh, I'm sure that's how it happened,_ he thought sarcastically._ What next? The orcs just wanted to be friends?_

Thorin crossed his arms over his chest, debating how best to handle the situation. Finally he looked him in the eye and studied him for what seemed like a very long time, his frighteningly intense eyes searching his face. Beriadan held his gaze, though he was trembling inwardly. Suddenly, Thorin started to chuckle.

"I can see right through you, little one. Your face says anger, but I see the fear underneath." He said, fingering his axe around his waist. "I could kill you right now, if I wished…" Beriadan struggled to keep his face impassive, but Thorin chuckled again. "Calm down, calm down, you're liable to pass out again! You have been far too zealous in assigning us motives, little one. You have no reason to fear. I have no plans to harm you… yet." Beriadan studied him trying to appear dominant and unafraid, weighing his options. Fight? Try to flee? Play on his arrogance? None of these seemed like a good idea.

Beriadan was relieved when Thorin dropped his gaze, despite his best efforts to not be intimidated. _Adlanniel would be ashamed of me right now._ He thought morosely._ I cannot allow myself to become weakened by intimidation. I must not tell him anything, nothing at all. No matter what._

_"_Well? Did the orcs cut out your tongue?"

"Why am I here?" Beriadan finally asked in elvish, after a weighty silence.

"You are here because you are injured and I have questions that need answering." Thorin replied. "So, I ask again, what is your name?"

Suddenly Beriadan could take it no longer. He could not stand the dwarf's taunting, arrogant tone. "Why should that matter to you, dwarf scum?" Beriadan exploded in elvish, which, of course, was exactly what Thorin intended to get him talking. Although, Thorin did think it was a nice touch how the elf was refusing to reply in the language Thorin had asked him the question in. Thorin held up his hands in a mocking gesture for 'peace'.

"I know you do not care about my name! Ask what you really want to know!" Beriadan spat. He was already pretty sure of what Thorin wanted, and he knew that he would not be willing to answer it anyways; Thorin would probably kill him on the spot for not answering earnestly, so Beriadan would rather get it over with quickly at this point. He had no hope anyway.

"Alright then, discourteous little elfling, you have your wish." Thorin said, unruffled entirely by the elf's rudeness. "I want to know where you are from and what you are doing near the Shire."

Beriadan smiled toothily. "I am from the wind, and so I go where I please and have no place I call home," He said. He tilted his chin up to expose his throat and waited for the inevitable blow from the axe to put him out of his misery, trying desperately to control his shaking; but Thorin surprised him greatly when he did not kill him immediately. He just looked at him in amusement.

"Trying so hard to appear brave… but still so frightened." He smiled a little in condescending sympathy. He was quickly discovering how best to rile the younger elf. This game of cat and mouse would eventually end with the elf accidentally spitting out the truth in frustration and rage. It had been done many times before, to others as angry and proud as he. "Do you have a girl back home? Parents? A family of some sort?" Thorin said, pushing Beriadan down and patting his head like one would a sick child. "I'm sure you do. I'm sure they want to see you come back to them alive. Just tell me, and you'll be able to go home as soon as you are well enough to travel."

"Pe-channas! Ego, mibo orch!" {Idiot! Go kiss an orc!} He shouted at Thorin, infuriated that he would bring the subject of family into this matter.

"Peace, elfling." Thorin said, unperturbed by his anger. "I'll leave now and be back in a little while to see if you changed your mind." He got up and began walking back to the others.

Thorin and Balin sat back down around the fire.

"That was rather cruel, Thorin, for one so vulnerable." Balin said.

"It only works on the vulnerable. Anger fuels the fire, and anger stems from fear. If you are vulnerable, you are afraid." Thorin replied.

"He's hurt pretty badly, isn't he?" Bofur remarked, looking at Thorin.

"His pride seemed more wounded than his body, I think." Thorin said.

"Do you think he's hungry?" Ori asked.

"Who knows? But I'm fairly sure he would not take food from us anyway." Thorin said. Ori got up to stroke the fire.

"How old do you expect he is?" Kili wondered.

"Young. Very young. I can't imagine what he's doing so far from home, wherever 'home' happens to be for him." Balin remarked.

"I'll bet he's from Rivendell." Fili chirped.

"Naw, not Rivendell. They know how to be civil, at least; even if they are the elvey type." Gloin decided.

"Good point, Gloin." Thorin agreed. The dwarves sat around the fire in contented silence for a while, until finally Thorin got to his feet. "I'd better check on him now. I'd hate for him to die so soon after we found him." He got up, but quickly sat back down. For one who had amused himself so much by keeping his cool and not getting angry, he sure looked furious now.

"What?" Balin asked.

"He's gone."

Beriadan had seen a light in the distance. He quickly realized what an amazing opportunity this was to make a break for it. He had heard that several Rivendell elves would be passing nearby, and so he could only assume this was their fire. The orcs would be long gone, and there could hardly be more dwarves nearby.

He had gotten to his feet in a last ditch effort to run, had fallen immediately, and proceeded to crawl on his belly away from the dwarves' camp. It had taken him quite awhile, but he had eventually succeeded in reaching the fire, only to discover that it was definitely not anyone from Rivendell.

Three trolls were gathered around the fire, complaining about having nothing but mutton to eat. Beriadan was not particularly concerned for his own immediate safety, after all, Valar knows that trolls are the stupidest things known to Arda. If he stayed in the shadows and snuck away quietly, there should not be an issue there.

However easily angered by the topic of family he might be, Beriadan was no fool. He knew that his chances of survival had just dropped significantly as soon as he discovered that nobody from Rivendell was at that fire. He was very badly injured, he was discovering that quickly, and with nobody to care for him or bring him food, he would surely die in the wilds. _Better to die than to be captured by dwarves._ He decided.

Being a wood elf, he knew that it was a good idea to get into a tree if he possibly could. Trees were comforting, and made him feel much safer, and the dwarves or trolls probably could not climb it.

He pulled himself to a standing position with the aid of a nearby oak, and proceeded to painfully drag himself into it, hissing between his teeth at every motion he made. Halfway up, he decided he could go no further, and would have to spend the night here, only yards away from three giant trolls. He took in a shuddering breath to keep from dissolving into tears, both from the pain and from his own aching heart.

He shook his head and wiped his hair out of his eyes. _I will be back to you soon, Adlanniel._ He promised the air, digging a pressed flower she had given him out of his pocket._ And I'll never make you wait for me this long again._ He hugged the little blue flower to him and forced back to tears pricking his eyes._ I promise, I will come home to you, Adlanniel, no matter what it takes..._


	3. Chapter 3

Everything belongs to Professor Tolkien.

Please Review. Please.

Well. I guess we need to find some footprints or something." Gloin suggested, shrugging.

"Do elves even leave footprints?" Kili asked, ever the 'why' child.

"Um? Thorin? Perhaps we could just… go to that light over there?" Bilbo suggested.

"Don't be silly. He's not strong enough to build a fire, and not dumb enough to try. He can't be over there." Thorin said, ignoring Kili completely.

"Well, we also didn't think he was strong enough to run off, and dumb enough to try… Plus, he may have seen the fire and gone there himself to see if they could help him."

"Why would he do that? We were helping him!" Kili insisted.

"I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure he did not trust us. In fact, if I were in his situation, I might even assume that we were behind the attack in the first place!" Fili commented.

"That's ridiculous." Kili snorted.

"Let's just go look!" Thorin bellowed, sick of the discussion and how much time was being wasted because of it. "If he's not there, then it's his own fault when he dies." Everyone began shuffling in the direction of the fire, muttering about 'grumpy Thorin' and 'that idiot elf'. Thorin ignored them all superbly and strode regally ahead of them.

They approached the fire cautiously. Fili and Kili shoved Bilbo forward.

"Okay, we'll be right here. If anything goes wrong, hoot twice like a barn owl and once like a screech owl."

"How-" Bilbo started, but Kili cut him off.

"No time! Just go!"

Bilbo never quite remembered how he found himself standing in a clearing with three trolls, who were arguing about their unsatisfactory dietary habits. He immediately wanted to run back, but somehow… he felt he needed to bring something back.

In the tree, Beriadan was watching with keen interest. This was not good. The dwarves had come back to haunt him. He knew this would probably happen as soon as he discovered who was really around that fire, but that did not make it any less inconvenient._ Well, I need a distraction to sneak away, and the dwarves need something fun to occupy their time with, and I could hardly leave three trolls alive with a clear conscience. So, depending on what that little 'Burglar' is doing…?_ His thoughts trailed off as he watched Bilbo walk up to one of them's pocket and reach in._ I couldn't have planned it better myself. Now, how can I have the most fun with this?_ As soon as Bilbo touched the wallet, Beriadan started shouting, throwing his voice so that they could not tell where it was coming from.

"'Ere, 'oo are you?" He shouted, trying not to snicker as he pretended to be the wallet. The troll reached around and grabbed the hobbit, hoisting him up and starting to talk with it.

_Wow, I almost feel sorry for the little guy._ He thought, but quickly cast the thought aside. It was survival of the fittest, and it was more important for him to finish his task and get home to Adlanniel after all these long years on the road than it was to help one little dwarf-sympathiser. This was war, and the hobbit just happened to be on the losing side of this battle. _In a moment, the dwarves will come to his rescue, and I'll be free to go amid the chaos, the hobbit will probably be okay anyway._ He decided.

The dwarves did not immediately appear, much to the elf's dismay. The trolls began brawling for what appeared to be no good reason, and the whole forest shook. Beriadan was hanging on mostly by sheer willpower, and what little strength he possessed was not enough to keep him on his precarious perch.

He tumbled to the ground, rolling to the side just quickly enough to avoid being killed by one of the troll's gigantic feet. The world swam before his eyes as he tried to get his bearings. Weaponless, disoriented, and in excruciating pain, his options were very limited. He struggled up onto his elbows and crawled as far as he could go before his path was blocked by thick, bushy, thorny undergrowth that he could not penetrate. He curled up in it, trying to ignore the poisonous thorns pricking into his skin. He was not fully hidden, but it would have to do for now...

In a haze of delirium, he saw the dwarves enter the clearing, fight ferociously, and then he blacked out briefly, when he came back to his senses, the dwarves were all in sacks and Bilbo was next to him in the bush, terrified. He resisted the urge to push the hobbit back out and just focused on breathing. The trolls continued arguing about how they were going to cook the dwarves, while Beriadan debated whether or not to try and save the dwarves. It never really occurred to him that he was not capable, only that he was unwilling. He decided that he had no business saving anyone who sicced orcs on innocent travelers that just happened to take an unusual route home... that took ten years... and included 'visiting' every place in Middle Earth... Especially enemy territories to Mirkwood... Oh, nevermind the details. Beriadan was not going to attempt to save them. In fact, he was rooting for the trolls.

The sun came up. The trolls turned to stone, and Beriadan was far from overjoyed.

Eventually, Thorin found Beriadan in the bushes and not-too-gently hoisted the half-dead elf up. He was too tired and battered to resist, and he let himself fall back into unconsciousness against Thorin's shoulder. (He would wake up thoroughly disgusted with himself for that.)

Beriadan slept for several hours, which was a relief for the dwarves because he tended to be more cooperative and less opinionated when he was not awake.

He woke up gasping for air, jolted awake by a shooting pain in his midsection. He gasped a little, then quickly recovered his tattered dignity as he realized that he was sitting around a fire with thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and an old man that he was pretty sure hadn't been there before. He was not cold, but he pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and hunched over, hoping to keep unwanted conversation at bay. Fortunately, they seemed to have forgotten he existed and they continued conversing excitedly amongst themselves. Beriadan did not really listen well until he heard the word 'Erebor'. That got him interested.

"Are you sure Rivendell is the only way?" Thorin asked. "Is there no other person who could help us get into the Lonely Mountain?" _King Thranduil will need to hear about this immediately! _Beriadan was about to get up right then, dwarves or no dwarves, health or no health, when he suddenly realized what a marvelous opportunity had just presented itself. He could stay with them, keep an eye on them, and when they began veering away from Mirkwood, he could just leave in the middle of the night. It could not be more perfect! But... how to make them believe I had a change of heart... He immediately began thinking of what to do... how to do it... _Thorin, did you make the orcs attack me? To which he will reply, of course not, because he's a moronic dwarf, and he'll think I can't tell he's lying; then I'll ask him nicely... _The plans turned over and over in his mind. This was good. This was very good.

Review this. I want feedback, I am trying to improve as a writer and as a plot... person. (Also, tell me what I am supposed to say for the plot thing. Plotologist? Plot person? Head Plot Developer? I'm lost.)


	4. Chapter 4

Please rate and review. And give me ideas. I like ideas.

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Beriadan found himself alone. He splashed his face with cool water by a stream and drank as much as he could. He had not eaten or drunk anything offered to him for fear of poison, (and out of sheer defiance) so he was famished and parched. He ran a hand through his hair, working out the knots and hating how dirty he felt. This bright, crisp morning after the troll attack was the day he was going to put his plan into action.

He had done many daring, brave deeds in his travels, and executed far more complicated and ludacris plans than this; but he was sure being civil, and even grateful, to a dwarf was going to be by far the hardest thing he had done in this past century.

He had risen earlier than the others would ever dream of, long before the sun was up, and long before the moon went down; just hoping to have a bit of time to himself, to clean up and collect his frayed nerves. He needed to take stock of himself, what he had, and what he was missing. The dwarves had his packs, and his weapons, but, depending on how thoroughly they searched his coat… He shrugged out of the tattered black hood and dug in every pocket Adlanniel had sewn in for him. He recovered: Three loaves of lembas, a small metal ball, some frayed string, an empty waterskin, a rag, a small, empty bottle, and a leaf carved from wood that he had for good luck, and his little blue flower Adlanniel had given him before he left. That, he never let out of his sight. He smiled, thinking about his last day with her, when she gave it to him.

Adlanniel was taller than him by four inches at least, but he had never minded, really. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and they had been childhood friends. It was she who had helped him train after his older brother was killed by spiders. She had been there through everything. His father's death, where he took an arrow to the heart to save his beloved King, his older brother's death, the time he broke four of his ribs when he was still a tiny little elfling… Yes, she was there for him through it all. Ten years ago, King Thranduil had seen him training by himself in the woods, and had asked to see him.

He asked Beriadan to spy for him. He had heard rumors of something stirring outside Greenwood, and needed someone to find out about it. Beriadan had accepted, eager to serve his king, just like his father and brother had. Adlanniel knew he may not come back, so she lovingly packed his bags, and as they embraced one last time, she pressed two things into his palm. A note, which he was instructed to read only when he was on his way back, and which he swore to do; and a little blue flower, carefully pressed and dried.

The note was in his satchel, which was in the hands of the dwarves, but at least he had the flower. Thoughts of home always made him sad. He had meant to be home in less than a year, but he was only just out of the borders of home when he was kidnapped by orcs.

He survived only by being cunning and resourceful, and having the same hunted mindset he had then had saved his life many times since. Now, it looked like he could finally go home, if he could just outwit his opponents one last time. All he had to do was be able to stay with them, without giving up his true mission, and find out what they were up to. Then he'd be back home in no time, healthy and happy and at peace once more._ But what if Adlanniel didn't wait? What if she gave up on me ever returning, and married that ugly imp, what was it, Calanon? _The thought made him weep a little inside. It was far too likely of a possibility to be easily dismissed. He shrugged, as if he could flick away all of his troubles in one motion.

The first dwarf awake was Thorin, for once Beriadan was glad to see him, he wanted to ask him something. He sauntered over to where the elf had positioned himself, with his back to the camp and his shoulders straight and head high. If he was going to be beg something of Thorin, he would at least look like one of the proud Eldar he was, and not some slinking little stoop-shouldered orc-spawn.

"Good morning." He said curtly as Thorin stood to his right.

"Well, I'd say that's the closest thing to courtesy I have ever gotten from you, isn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"What do I owe this unexpected politeness to? Fever? Someone predicting my death...?" He asked, chuckling a bit. Beriadan took in a deep breath. "Actually, I was wondering if I could have my bag back that you took from me."

"Why would I do that?" Thorin asked, smirkingly expecting some sort of barbed answer, but the young elf seemed entirely sincere in his reply.

"I, uh, made a promise that I would do something, and I want to do it, if I possibly can."

"And what would that promise be?"

"It's just-just a scrap of paper, and I promised my, uh, friend that I would read it, if something unexpected happened."

"Why did you wait until now?" Thorin asked, still suspicious. Beriadan took in a shuddering breath, trying not to explode in frustration. In order for his plan to work, he'd have to gain Thorin's trust. To gain Thorin's trust, he'd have to look sincere. And in order to look sincere… he had to tell the truth, or, at least, part of it.

"Come, tell me, you look ready to explode." Thorin coaxed him, realizing that they were getting somewhere with this.

Beriadan took a deep breath._ Not over the top dramatic, just enough to make him take you seriously._ He ordered himself.

"Well, I was just supposed to be on a short trip, and the most beautiful elf in the world was waiting for me back home. She gave me a letter and told me to open it on my return trip."_ Easy now._ He told himself._ Make him drag it out piece by piece, or he'll never buy it, true or not._

"And?" Thorin prodded. _Okay, be on the verge of tears, like it's painful to continue._ He reminded himself. That shouldn't be too hard, it was painful to talk about this part.

"I was abducted by orcs, and-and… It was horrible." He said, stopping as his voice cracked, remembering all that had happened to him. "I finally escaped, but then the ship I boarded wrecked, and I almost died, until I was picked up by slave traders, I ran away from them, and stayed in Rivendell a short time, and I was just about to start my return journey when…" He stopped again, letting his eyes grow misty and distant as he recalled the painful past.

"Some other calamity happened, and another, until finally I was almost killed one last time, and that's where we rescued you."

"Yes, exactly."

"But, I still don't understand something, you are not on your return journey yet, remember? So why do you want the letter now?"

_Now is where I have to be extra careful, I need to make this dramatic._ "I won't ever make a return journey." He said, letting himself cry freely for once. "You'll kill me! I don't know why you have not already, but if you were in alliance with those orcs, you'll do it soon, I know." He wept, waiting for Thorin's inevitable reply.

"We are not in alliance with the orcs! We saved you from them!" Thorin boomed, outraged by the very idea. Beriadan sat up quickly, looking him in the eyes pleadingly, like he really wanted to believe him.

"But I heard you!" He protested. "I heard you say you were going over the Misty Mountains! Only orcs and dragons live there!"

"We are on a quest, to reclaim what was taken from us by orcs and dragons." Thorin spat.

"So…" Beriadan said, like he was trying to make it all come together inside of his head, "All this time I've been trying to escape, you were really just trying to help me?" Thorin nodded. _Well, it sure took him awhile to figure that out!_ Thorin thought. Beriadan got up, leaning heavily on a tree trunk.

"T-Thanks… For, for everything, I guess." He said, like he was dazed. Thorin got up and fetched Beriadan's pack.

"Here." He said, tossing it to him, "I took all your weapons out earlier, so here, have fun reading the note from your love." His tone may have been a bit mocking, but it was a noticeable change, and one that Beriadan regarded with glee. He took the pack and limped a little ways away, leaning heavily on each tree he passed. When he was sure he was out of hearing range, he sat down and laughed till he cried. He never dreamed in a million ages that it would go so well! That Thorin really was an idiot, even for a dwarf!


	5. Chapter 5

Everything belongs to Tolkien

Please review, if nobody cares, I see no reason to continue it

He shook his head, scowling now that his back was again turned to Thorin and company. That was the absolute most humiliating and degrading thing he had ever done. Crying, like a little child, in front of a dwarf! A dwarf, no less! He sighed, grimacing at the memory. It had been necessary, of course, to integrate himself with these frightful, bearded scum, but that did not make it any less horrible.

He had allowed himself to cry in front of very few people in his lifetime. Although brief by the standards of his people, his three hundred years had given him no shortage of fodder for tears. But, among other useful lessons learned, (including not to try reasoning with an angry, wounded spider while hanging upside down with your throat exposed) he learned to never show weakness or let someone see you are in pain. It is a cowardly thing to do, and if there was one thing he detested, it was a coward.

It had accomplished what it was supposed to accomplish, in getting both the letter and getting information about the dwarves' quest, but it had been painful regardless. There was no time to dwell on the events of last night, though. The dwarves would be up at any time now, and they'd want to get a move on , the hard won letter would have to wait until tonight. He was not entirely sure of where they were headed, but as long as they stayed in the general direction of Mirkwood, he'd just paste on a smile and do what he had to do to survive.

He quickly made his way back to the blanket they'd put on the ground for him, sliding underneath it and trying to fake sleeping. He did not sleep often while traveling, and when he did, it was in sparse little snatches here and there. As for now, he had no intention of sleeping anywhere near the dwarves. It wouldn't do, however, for the dwarves to catch wind of the fact that he did not need sleep. Faking unconsciousness was always a good option to have in his arsenal of tricks.

Thorin was up within the hour, just as the sun was rising. He roused all the others, and Beriadan quickly realized which of them were morning people. The answer: not a single one. They were grouchy, quick to argue, and utterly unbearable from Beriadan's perspective. The morning was not the best Beriadan had ever expirienced, but the worst was yet to come.

Balin checked his injuries. That was humiliating, to say the least, and they were not healing well at all. The leg was infected, as was his midsection, but his arm was healing alright, thanks to his elven healing ability.

After adamantly refusing food on the grounds that he was simply not hungry, (a blatant lie, he was actually just too disgusted to allow himself to eat food they had touched) Beriadan realized with growing horror that there were not enough ponies to allow him to ride alone. Either he'd be sitting behind one of his sworn enemies for who knows how long, or he'd be walking the entire way. Frankly, he'd rather walk, broken leg or not.

The conflict began soon after their breakfast. Beriadan was wondering which would be worse, to ride behind one of the dwarves; or the hobbit, who was surely enraged at him for not helping him during the troll episode of the other night. Then there was that tall fellow, Gandalf, they called him. Who in Arda was he? And why was he keeping company with dwarves, of all creatures?

Thorin motioned to a pony, indicating Beriadan to climb up. He shook his head.

"I'll walk, if it's all the same to you. I need the exercise." He said, hoping it would go over well.

Thorin smirked at him, eyeing the swollen, bruised leg that was still more dried blood and bruising than skin. "I don't think you can." He said.

"I can." Beriadan insisted, putting a hand over his abdomen to try and stop the throbbing from his infected stab wound.

"Show me." He said, a bemused smile still pulling up the corners of his mouth. "Try to walk from here to that tree."

Beriadan squared his shoulders, and breathed a silent prayer to Iluvatar that he could make it. He slowly put his foot down, wincing at the spasms of pain that wracked his body as soon as he put it down, but he stayed upright this time. He took another step, hope rising in his heart as he realized he might actually have regained the ability to walk... and fell on his face. Thorin could not contain his laughter at the proud, disdainful, haughty elf facedown on the ground.

Beriadan stood up as quickly as he could, wishing he could just disappear. Thorin laughed again at his flushed face and pointed back at the pony.

"Get on. We need to go and you've wasted enough time already." Thorin said. Swallowing his pride, Beriadan clambered up and tried not to throw up as Bilbo got up in front of him.

Several hours passed by uneventfully. Beriadan was not feeling well. One second he was burning with fever, the next, shivering with cold. He was hurting terribly, and his hands shook as he tried to take a drink to ease the burning in his throat.

At some point, several elves joined them and invited them to eat and regain their strength in Imladris. Beriadan was far too sick and ailing to care.

Three days and several close brushes with death later, the gates of Imladris swung open to let Thorin and company in. It was a wonder that Beriadan was still alive, and this visit to the last Homely House could not come too soon for him. In a haze of delirium, he remembered being lifted into a bed, and then he blacked out.

Review, please!


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